


The Death of Catherine Clark

by Trang_Trat



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Multi, Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 07:57:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16404404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trang_Trat/pseuds/Trang_Trat
Summary: A death of a best firend brings turmoil to the rest of the gang, those consider they are as close as family. Turn out, even family keeps secrets from each other. As her body being lowering into the earth, what others hide rise to the surface.





	The Death of Catherine Clark

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys,
> 
> This is my first work and the first time I post my story on Archive of Our Own. Don't be surprise if my characters are unfamiliar to you. They are my own creation. Since English is not my firts language and I don't live in New York, please forgive my mistakes with the spelling and the setting. I'm still new to writing so, if you can, please let me know what you think about my story.
> 
> Lots of Thanks.

“Catherine Clark is dead”. The news was broken to every person that she once held dear that was presenting in the house as the line was spoken, which included her four best friends and a husband. No child, though, was listed due to the fact that she never wanted one. She died peacefully in her sleep three days ago, in her art room, which located in the top of floor of her house, on the floor, surrounded by her favorite arts that were, apparently, too much for the bedroom, according to Alan. Besides her was a bottle of sleeping pills and pain killer capsules littered nearby. Half of the bottle was empty. It was clear how she died. It was clear that her death was suicide. So there was no need for more investigation nor complicated police work, just a simple thorough examination of the body then returning her to the family. After three days, Alan Boyles, the husband, Catherine kept her name even after she married, was delivering the unfortunate news to his wife’s closest friends.

A silence covered the large, two stories Victorian style house. The friends were shocked. They looked down to the floor, trying to make sense of what they just heard. One of them, Max, a detective, just spoke with Catherine a few days ago. She seemed happy, at least was her voice suggested on the phone, as much as a person having cancer could be. She told him that she would be gone on the trip to find some peace and quiet. “The cancer is getting to me, Max” – she said to him – “So I want to getaway you know? I’m not letting it take me, Max. You know me best”.

“I’m not letting it take me”. Catherine’s last words sounding so normal to him then now turned haunting like a nightmare. Why could he not predict the outcome? Why he let this happened? It was his job to predict. He failed.  
Caroline Simons recalled the day she had gone with Catherine to the hospital for painful stomachache. It was four months ago, in the middle of the summer. The doctor walked in with the test result and gently closed the door behind him. Something is wrong – they both could tell. And like a sudden lightning stroke the sky in the mid of a clear day, the doctor said Catherine had stomach cancer. And she was in third stage.

  
“Ok. How do we fight it? Surgery? Is that ok?” – Catherine fixed her posture. She sat upright on her seat, legs crossed, and hand placed on her thighs. It was her battle mode. She did it every time she ready to destroy her competitor in the court house. Her tone deepened, although a little bit shaken.

  
The doctor put the scans on the machine and pointed out what he was concerning. Catherine’s stomach was on display. Vivid and define were the black spots across the large area. He put another scants on, the pictures of her lungs, liver and bowel appears under the light. They had black spots in them too. “The cancer has spreaded Mrs. Clark. To your lung, your liver and the bowel is taking a heavy hit, which explained your extreme pain. We fear that you about to enter stage forth”

  
The good doctor took of his glasses “Surgery is an option. Yes. But we have to cut out much of your organs and we don’t know if there is more. Even if the surgery’s successful, there’s going to be a long and aggressive chemo-therapy for you”

  
“Are you sending her home to die?” – Caroline raised her voice.

  
“Of course not Ms. Storm. Treatment is here if Mrs. Clark wishes. But she has to decide what she wants for the cancer. I have told her what will happen if she chose which treatment” – the doctor gave a heavy sigh. He had seen so many deaths due to cancer already. Despite his effort, the patients just withered and died like a plant in a drought. Those who lived depended on the chemo existing like shadows of what they once were. And then they took their own lives as well, after their hair fell out and their frames reduced to sticks. Moments like this made the good doctor questioned the reason why he chose medicine.

  
Caroline sat with her at the nearby park. They didn’t speak. Caroline just held Catherine’s hands in hers. An hour passed, Caroline finally looked to her friend, her best friend:  
“Are you going to tell Alan, Cat?”

  
Catherine leaned her head on Caroline’s shoulder “I don’t know how to tell him Caro.” – she bit down a sob – “ I don’t know how to fight cancer either.”  
Caroline Simons was a doctor herself. She too knew the odds in fighting cancer. And it never on the patients’sides.  
Caroline held her friend closer: “We’ll figure it out”

  
She knew Catherine was too smart to not see the lie in her words. But Catherine just smiled weakly.

****

And now they all gathered in Catherine and Alan’s house on the eve of her funeral. They were astonished. Max, on the other hand, just sighed in relive. He picked up the photo frame containing the group photo on New Year eve, under the Empire State Building, smiling goofy and making faces.

“Maybe this for the best” – he said.

  
“What the hell Max!” – Jack Gordon, another friend, who was a chef, yelled.

  
“Think about it” – he told his friends – “We all know Catherine too well. From fricking college. She’s not going down without a fight. She beat the cancer. She died on her term, when her body still fits her favorite gown, her locks still golden, her skin still fair. She never wanted us to remember a white, boney corpse version of her.”

  
Max leaned back on the sofa after his lines. It is true that Catherine Clark would rather die than giving up the fight. She was too stubborn, too determine and too concerning about her friends and family. Her friends would all be the testimonies of her characters if anyone dared to ask.

  
“Maybe it’s for the best” – Will Hammerson, a constructor, agreed in one of the living room’s corners.  
After him, the surrounding descended into silent one more.

  
The friends stayed until haft passed four. Then they bid goodbye to each other and gave Alan a hug before went on their ways, promised they would see each other again tomorrow for the funeral.

****

Upon arriving at his home, in front of the garage, Max noticed there were mails in his mailbox. At first, he thought they were commercial brochures like usual. But when he laid all the items on the kitchen table, something caught his eye: an envelop with a golden color symbol – CC – printed beautifully in the middle of a plaint blood red background with a faint perfume sense, a sense he recognized immediately, for he had smelled it so many time: Catherine’s favorite bottle of perfume p[]. There was no name or address written, no stamps or anything would suggest the envelope was sent via post office. It was delivered personally, which screamed suspicious to Max’s face. He opened the letter with caution and after making sure there nothing but paper – two piece of papers to be exact - inside it, Max took out the white cards. The elegant handwriting carved into his blue pupils with a chilling sensation ran across his spine. It belonged to Catherine and it said, without any euphemism or “dear”, precise and straight to the point:

 

 

> “Maximus Madeline Marshall, it’s me, Cat.  
>  If I died SUDDENLY Max, it is not suicide  
>  Don’t trust anyone, especially our friends.  
>  C.C”
> 
> The next piece of paper only made matter worse  
>  “Max, I know you and Alan is sleeping with each other for a long time now.  
>  I forgive you.  
>  C.C”

“Dammit, Max” His voice rang in the middle of the quiet house.  
 


End file.
